Shatterproof
by EternalWaltz
Summary: One could argue whether a shadow, a being with hardly a tangible form to begin with, is capable of becoming broken. Kuroko's third year in Teiko marches on, even after the Generation of Miracles have long abandoned him. Told from Kuroko's POV, in present-tense.
1. Chapter 1

Shatterproof:

**Disclaimer: Kuroko no Basuke does not belong to me, and I am in no way associated with the franchise. I don't own any of the characters, settings, etc.**

**A/N- So, this is set during the GoM's third year at Teiko. For this story, Kuroko left school for a week after the team's change in attitude, and has just now returned. I apologize in advance if you find Kuroko a bit OOC. This is also my first time writing in present-tense, so I will do my best to keep it consistent. Also, a very special thank you to Made2352, for introducing me to KnB!**

Chapter 1: The Long Way Home

During the summer of my third year of Teiko, everything changed. They say that the first wound cuts the deepest...so perhaps the loss of Aomine-kun hurt the most?

The dull, monotonous thud of a dribbled basketball fills my ears. The frigid air of the fourth practice gym does nothing to dry my profuse sweating. I look down at my shoes, panting with exertion, as I observe the uniform pattern of the hardwood floors beneath me. This desolate gym, now underused to the sight of abandonment, should be a sight for sore eyes.

It's quite the latter. Instead it's looked upon by weary, detached orbs that are anything but focused. After all, the physical strain I'm under frays my nerves much less than the emotional strain. This experience almost feels surreal, as if my muscle memory is guiding my obligatory practice, rather than the cognitive will power of my mind.

I half-heartedly practice a drive, running through exercises that I constructed after watching the rest of the first string practice. Afterwards, I mindlessly attempt a shot, watching as the ball bounces pathetically off the backboard. Maybe my body is mocking my inability to utilize the most basic of core fundamentals. Or perhaps playing basketball and thinking pointless drivel just don't go well together.

This gym used to be a lot brighter. The walls echoed with the sounds of words of encouragement, friendly jeers, and incessant laughter. A deadpan alto voice would humor the whims of a easygoing baritone. It was also much warmer. It's not as if the body heat of two individuals compensated for the overall freezing temperature, but I suppose it was a mental issue. After all, a pleasant presence makes for a nice distraction. Back then, the fourth gym was so inviting to me that I thought of it as my second home. And, if the rest of the Miracles happened to be there- they were my family.

More than anything, I wish to return to that radiance. If only this bleak gym could be made lively once more. But- it's a commonly known fact of science that many environments need light to sustain themselves, and without it, they will indefinitely fall into ruin.

Speaking of luminescence, I glance outside, making note of the scarlet hues filtering through the dusty gym windows. Realizing that it's almost time, I quickly get ready, changing back into my school clothes and mopping up my sweat with a cotton towel. I stand outside the door, in the shadows cast by a stooped sakura tree.

Sure enough, I spot a lithe figure hopping down from the nearby school roof. Landing deftly on his feet, the man begins to walk away from the school at a slow, leisurely pace.

Aomine-kun.

I do my best to clear my head of any lingering thoughts, and hurry to close the distance between us. I try to mimic his naturally long-legged pace, and quickly fall into stride. My breathing evens out as I grow more comfortable, and begin to relax. Walking home together like this has become somewhat a routine of ours. It always has been, ever since the discovery that Aomine-kun and myself actually live nearby each other.

With the both of us settling into a tranquil silence, I take the time to observe the sights and sounds of the city. The convoluted cacophony of traffic fills my ears: agitated horns blaring, gas engines humming, and spinning tires squeaking. It's almost as if the machinery, too, is anxiously waiting to get home.

The presence of nature here is scarce, but it exists nonetheless. I find myself quietly appraising the trees we pass, the weeds that grow between the cracks in the sidewalk, and the black birds that seem to herald the pinnacle of summer. These stoic life forms bring a calming aura to an otherwise bustling street.

Pedestrians shuffle past Aomine-kun and I, as we go opposite directions on the sidewalk. Their lively chatter fills my ears, as they punctuate their speech with elaborate hand motions and ever-changing countenances. I take the time to discreetly observe them- I always have found analyzing others fascinating.

However, no sound is more significant than the mutual rhythm of our footsteps, echoing softly together amidst the streets of Tokyo.

Nonchalantly, I realize that I'm poring over exactly the types of sentiments that Aomine-kun dismissed as irrelevant. Perhaps my fondness for the small details-the little things-is starting to suffocate my thoughts.

I know better than to strike up a conversation with Aomine-kun, because he's usually a little cranky after his naps. So, I continue to survey the sights.

Aomine-kun and I pass by the street basketball court that we sometimes meet up on during the weekends. The metal hoop stares down almost condescendingly from its ten-foot high throne, challenging onlookers to play. On top of that, the weathered surface of the rough gray cement boasts excellent traction for running shoes, lacking the incessant squeak that came with playing on a serious court. The final component to perfect this picture would be an elastic rubber ball, becoming an orange blur as it's used with the finesse of a master.

Not too long ago, Aomine-kun would've been the one to confront the hoop, to exploit the broad expanse of the court, and to assume total dominion over the basketball. But that was a case from the past.

We also go by a convenience store, one that we're quite familiar with actually. Colorful posters advertise the recent products in stock, and bright white lights stream through the large glass windows. Crowds of people, the majority of which are high schoolers, gather in clusters around the sliding doors. They share popsicles, not minding if their treats dripped all over their hands; they didn't seem to mind getting sticky. After finishing they examine their sticks, groaning with disappointment upon receiving an ordinary result, and hollering with excitement if they get a "WINNER". Hardly anyone gets a winner, though. The last time I've seen one was from that time, where I had given it to Momoi-san.

I remember when Aomine-kun was the one who would've treated me to the summer delicacy, pressing a strawberry popsicle into my hand with an exuberant grin on his face. We would've enjoyed our snacks together, making a game of seeing if we could shoot our used sticks into the trash can. I would always pick mine up off the floor after I missed.

Finally, we reach the bridge atop the train station, the final intersection Aomine-kun make on our route together, before parting ways and saying goodbye. In my mind's eye, I can see Aomine-kun partially turning, before uttering, "See ya' tomorrow, Tetsu."

In my distant memories, I can see him raising a single hand to casually wave goodbye as he strode down the sun-warmed sidewalk, alone. Navy blue hair is gently tousled by the wind as he walks. His silhouette stands out brilliantly among the dying rays of crimson.

Now it's a bit different, though.

Aomine-kun says nothing to me, and makes no sign of realizing that I stay behind. Wordlessly, thoughtlessly, he continues down the road as if nothing has happened. And perhaps to him, nothing has.

For I have been staying in the shadows this entire time. I've yet to say anything, make any sudden movement, or even breathe heavily enough to alert him to my presence. He's been left in blissful ignorance to the silent accompanist trailing a few feet behind him on his way home.

I've tried. I really have. Going through the school day without Aomine-kun, playing basketball without Aomine-kun...and walking home without Aomine-kun. Alas, it is among the most fundamental laws of nature that a shadow cannot stray too far from the light, lest it lose the creation and purpose of its existence entirely.

But there will always be distance. There exists a perpetual, invisible wall that prevents me from getting any closer. Those few feet of detachment are so far more significant than the eye can see, and carry a weight much more dense than the expanse of air.

But you really must forgive me, Aomine-kun. No matter how much I try, I can't completely cut ties with you. I hope you don't me subtly following you, throughout both of our daily routines.

In exchange, I will be content with staring at your back.

**A/N- I hope I didn't make Kuroko seem too angsty, or stalker-like. Forgive me if I did. Anyways, please review! The next chapter will be about everyone's favorite glutton, Murasakibara! **


	2. Chapter 2

Shatterproof

**Disclaimer: Kuroko no Basuke does not belong to me, and I am in no way associated with the franchise. I don't own any of the characters, settings, etc.**

**A/N- So, the shift between tenses might be a bit jarring to some, but I tried to make the transitions as smooth as possible. As you've probably noticed, this story uses minimal dialogue, but I think that helps maintain the mood. This chapter is dedicated to Cloudie-Skye, who's supported me, and is an awesome friend! And of course, to all the wonderful people that have favorited/followed/reviewed already!**

Chapter 2: His Most Important Meal

I suppose it's only natural that the person with literally the most massive presence in my life...left behind a gaping hole when he departed. Who knew that life could feel so empty without Murasakibara-kun looming over me?

I had thought that the teacher's lecture would last for eternity. He had persisted on about perplexing mathematical figures, to a rather arduous extent. Not that it had really concerned, me. Having long given up on any chance of understanding arithmetic, I lay comfortably on my desk. If the teacher condemned my being half-asleep with my head pillowed in my arms, he didn't bother to say anything.

When the bell chimed, I nearly breathed a sigh of relief. Resisting the urge to stand up and stretch my aching muscles, I shook my head out of its hazy stupor, and smoothed my rebellious bed head back as much as possible.

Gathering up my nearly untouched study materials and school supplies, I neatly shuffled them back into my schoolbag. Around me, my classmates excitedly fidgeted and chattered with vigor as they cleared their desks as well, bringing out multihued bentou boxes from their belongings. I rose from my chair, weaving around my overzealous classmates as I rested my palm on the sliding door of classroom. I muttered a soft explanation of where I was going, and turned to observe my peers' expressions. None of them had noticed, of course.

It was lunch period. And I had been in the mood for a change of scenery.

I resist to urge to doodle in my composition book. The teacher is tactful enough to prevent me from dozing, as any remotely unfocused student is subject to read from the textbook. Thus, I at least attempt to look like I'm paying rapt attention. But I won't deny questioning the usefulness of conjugating English verbs.

With the bell comes much deserved solace. Because I have a place to be.

The halls had been mostly empty at that time of day. I lightly tread through the checkered white and azure hallways. Masked by the lingering conversations echoing off the Teiko walls, my indistinct footsteps could hardly be heard.

Drawing closer to my destination, I quickened my pace, but hesitated at the door. I wondered if this spot was currently occupied. Resting my pale hand on the metal knob, I strengthened my resolve and pushed it open. The heavy door groaned as it yielded to the crisp winter air. Bracing myself for the altitude-induced chill, I stepped on the roof.

Unbeknownst to me, there was already someone there.

I hastily stuff my papers into my bag and rise. Drifting swiftly through the hallway, I dutifully climb a linear staircase. Not even bothering to use the guardrail, I clear the steps and proceed down a long hallway. Reaching the familiar door, I gently ease it open. I'm greeted by a humid surge of a summer heat wave. The route's somewhat different, and the temperature is the stark opposite of what it was back then.

But this is still our usual spot. And I won't be the one to break our promise.

The gigantic stature and impressive build was a telltale sign of the man's identity. Leaning his elbows against the iron railing, he turned to me.

I'd accidentally found Murasakibara-kun.

He scrutinized me then, even if his relaxed countenance remained as unchanging as ever.

"Did you bring me snacks, Kuro-chin?"

Lightly denying it, I watched his childish expression morph to disappointment. I could tell that he was analyzing me once more, probably wondering why I would disturb him without a valid reason. As he inquired what I was doing there, I stiffly explained how the classroom was too noisy for to eat comfortably.

After a drawling, "Hmmm," Murasakibara-kun muttered something about "Kuro-chin barely eating anything anyway." He returned to the rail, facing away from me. As I, too, turned to leave, he offered an unexpected suggestion.

The usually selfish Murasakibara-kun was allowing me to share his spot.

"Not that I'm lonely or anything~; it's just boring to eat up here by myself."

Seeing that I wasn't in a position to argue, I begrudgingly agreed. It was just for a short amount of time every day. I stood there awkwardly, thinking how best to become more comfortable.

Murasakibara-kun sensed my opposition, and claimed that he had to make sure I wasn't lying to him. He made me promise to him. Holding out a long, bony pinky, he glanced at me expectantly. Murasakibara-kun wanted me to pinky swear. The last time I had this done this, it was to humor Ogiwara-kun in grade school. Questioning whether he was serious, I glanced at his violet eyes, which were beginning to narrow in suppressed impatience. Inwardly sighing, I slowly raise my calloused pinky and link it with his. Murasakibara-kun chants the words to the children's song as I half-heartedly mutter the lyrics.

Strolling to my normal spot on the vast floor, I arrange my lunch on the lukewarm cement, muttering an "itadakimasu." It feels almost abnormal to not share my lunch with my self-indulgent teammate.

One time, when I had laid out my lunch back then, Murasakibara-kun appraised it suspiciously. A little concerned, I asked what was bothering him. Pointing at my rice ball, which looked small even in my comparably petite hands, he asked what it tasted like.

Murasakibara-kun had forgotten the taste of a traditional rice ball.

I tried to explain to him that it wouldn't be to his liking, that it wasn't quite suited for his rather selective palette. But he stubbornly ignored me, reaching out and plucking it from my outstretched palm. He popped it into his mouth, thoughtfully chewing. After a few moments, he swallowed with obvious difficulty.

"Kuro-chin, it's really bland," he complained.

Opening my mouth to reprimand him for not listening to me earlier, I was stopped by his next action. He snaked his long arm behind me and into my lunch. Pulling out another one of my grandmother's rice balls.

"But if its Kuro-chin's it doesn't taste too bad," he clarified.

As if that justified his actions, he popped the other half of my lunch into his mouth.

Later that day, I was slightly perplexed to find an enormous bag of chips on my desk. Noticing that it was curiously sticky to the touch, it immediately confirmed my suspicions. Murasakibara-kun was fair enough to make an even trade.

After finishing my rather conservative meal, I extract class notes from my pocket. I didn't cultivate very dependable study methods growing up, but even I can examine a paper. Ah, yes. And then there's my secret weapon. I pulled that out of my pocket, obediently opening the package.

It had been the day of our final exams. Murasakibara-kun was appalled that I would sacrifice time eating for anything. I explained how essential it was to prepare for my worst subject.

He chewed silently on his multicolored marshmallows, contemplating. Relieved for the silence, I dutifully returned to the study guide and ran my eyes efficiently down the pages. Systematically repeating words and phrases in my head, I almost didn't notice when Murasakibara-kun spoke to me again.

"Here, Kuro-chin. They're vanilla flavored."

He firmly extended his arm, presenting a pile of the rainbow-hued, fluffy treats to me.

Hesitantly, I politely accepted one. And another. And maybe, just maybe...a couple dozen more. My gaze never left my papers, as I continued munching on the rather addictive snack. I didn't have too much of an appetite, but something about the chewing pattern of my jaw focused me. Or it might've been the taste. Some of the other students claimed that eating comfort food made studying bearable.

For whatever reason, a blanket of cozy silence settled between us.

When I took the exam later, I briefly mused if that strategy actually boosted my score. Figuring that it was a matter of confidence, I dismissed it. But seeing my grade months later made me realize Murasakibara-kun's genius.

Now I sit, quietly contemplating. Packing away my lunch, and stashing away the wrapper of my treat, I mull over the whereabouts of Murasakibara-kun. Maybe he's late? But a more ominous corner of my mind echoes the truth.

He won't be coming to eat with me anymore.

Although I was extremely apprehensive at first, I came to tolerate his company...and sooner or later, I found myself anticipating our little lunch rendezvous. His whole aura exuded peace and homeliness, despite how intimidating he had seemed at first glance. I had felt comfortable on this roof, with my teammate, with a sense of contentment that really can't be placated any other way.

So, I return to this spot, every weekday, without fail. I return in the hopes of recreating just a piece of that environment, to feel a fragment of the ease that I had known in those days. To return to the one spot where I might've let my rigid self loose, if only for a little while.

I will endure the pain of eating alone.

I set a children's snack on the ground, whose colorful design betrays my melancholy state of mood. I place it neatly on the exact spot where my gigantic friend used to sit. Maybe it's an offering of some sort-a plea for Murasakibara-kun to come back. Or more likely, it's a symbol of respect for a friend who once came here, but is now on too convoluted a road to ever arrive again.

As I rise, I massage my cramped legs and make my way to the door.

I've the most peculiar feeling, Murasakibara-kun. There always seems to be a hollow sensation in my chest, that aches at every waking hour.

I'm certain that it's not hunger.

**A/N- "Itadakimasu" is a Japanese term to say before a meal, which loosely means, "thank you for the meal." And, I would not recommend eating junk food while studying. I assume that it's actually ideal to eat healthy foods, but this is fanfiction, so... **

**Anyways, the next chapter will be about the ever-sparkling Kise! I'd be honored if you would drop a review in the meantime! **


	3. Chapter 3

Shatterproof

**Disclaimer: Kuroko no Basuke does not belong to me, and I am in no way associated with the franchise. I don't own any of the characters, settings, etc.**

**A/N: So...I kinda went all over the place with this chapter. It veered off topic more than I would've liked, but...oh well. This chapter's a bit lengthy, but bear with me. As per usual, thank you to all of the people who favorited/followed/reviewed! And much thanks to Made2352 and Cloudie-Skye!**

Chapter 3: Photogenic

I would never admit it, but there was something about Kise-kun that made me look forward to seeing him every day. Sometimes you only recognize your most cherished treasures once they're gone. Who could've guessed...

Petrichor. It's the scent of the sidewalk after it rains.

If that's the case, then I suppose that the Tokyo sky will be dense with petrichor today.

I carefully place one foot in front of the other, narrowly avoiding the rivulets of water dribbling down the sidewalk. The gradual darkening of the sidewalk indicates the duration of time I've been walking: not too long, it seems. It'll be a few minutes still before I run the risk of catching a cold.

I casually readjust the clear plastic umbrella that rests on my shoulder. I can already see crystalline tracks making a webbed pattern on its surface. That is, until I periodically swing it down to shield from the waves caused by cars. It's possible that the drivers just don't notice me...

Chill, clear water parts beneath the rubber soles of my boots, splashing lightly. My rhythmic tread remains steady as I excuse myself for the frantic people haphazardly rushing to shelter. Holding bags, their arms, and all other manners of things over their heads, they quickly walk.

I notice a duo, a brother and sister, both of about 6 years old. Holding hands, they worriedly try to navigate through the strangers. Kneeling down to their height level, I attempt to smile kindly. Then, I make an inquiry of their concerns.

"Onii-san...we're a little lost. We just want somewhere dry to stay."

Pondering this for a bit, I point out the nearby grocery store and give them simple directions. Suddenly making a revelation, I offer them my clear umbrella, despite it requiring their combined strength to keep upright.

Wide-eyed and cautious, they ask, "Are you sure, Onii-san?"

I simply nod. Elated, the children run off to their newfound destination. I feel a sort of satisfaction in my heart being able to help such polite children. They're so carefree, so easy to please...they almost remind me of someone.

The rain is pelting down heavier than before, assaulting the crown of my head with icy drops. My hair becomes more heavy and limp by the second, stray beads of water trickling down my prone face. Dark clothes stubbornly cling to my wet frame, their dampness outlining my scrawny features even more. Refraining a shiver, I take care to increase my pace marginally, to escape this horrid weather. It won't be too much longer now.

...This is almost like old times, when Kise-kun and I would walk to school in the rain together. I would bring an umbrella, of course...and one time, the airheaded Kise-kun forgot his. With a rather apologetic glance and a few insistent pleas, he stubbornly advocated to be under the same umbrella as me. I shook my head, administering a deadpan refusal. But when the time began to pass, and seconds turned to minutes, I eventually gave in to Kise-kun's rather admirable willpower. I suppose his pitiful eyes and drooping posture didn't hurt, either.

We tried our best to compact ourselves under it, the obvious height difference glaring even more than usual. He settled for his typical incessant chattering at first, as I listened to the rhythmic pattern of raindrops as a distraction. But my companion soon got bored. And when Kise-kun got bored, his clinging would begin...and when that started, push would easily give way to shove. And when shove resulted in both of us tumbling down onto the sodden ground, I realized that bringing an umbrella was counterproductive.

Because when with Kise-kun, of course good intentions turn into attending Teiko with soiled uniforms and disheveled hair. Kise-kun was an enigma by the way that he got us into trouble without trying, attracted quite a few odd stares without trying...and made my day rather interesting without trying. But to say the least, I was very thankful for my lack of presence that day.

After finally reaching my destination, I refrain from breathing a sigh of relief. The stout, compact building exudes homeliness, further proved by the warm light spilling from the display windows. I firmly place my grip on the handle, and gently pull the door open.

My eyes meet a sea of tiered wooden bookshelves, each holding a variety of texts: novels, magazines, textbooks, kits, and many more. The carpeted floor displays a modest, striped design that's been worn by years of footsteps.

I remember a time when, on my weekly bookstore runs, Kise-kun would insist on "tagging along with me," as he so put it. Really, it'd just be a two hour excursion of Kise-kun wreaking havoc in the unfortunate store. I suppose he was like a energetic pet that storeowners disapprove of but masters bring in anyways...

I'd always been comfortable with quietly reading in the corner, taking care not to disturb the passerby. The part of my brain that reassured it would stay this way-even with the variable of Kise Ryouta-was woefully disproven.

I'd left him in the manga section, flatly telling Kise-kun that here, there was even reading material on his level. Ignoring his whines, I'd retreated to one of the more solitary corners of the bookstore.

The next thing I knew, he was roaming the store, looking for me. Calling my name with great fervor, he followed up with a declaration of his boredom. Immediately finding him and seizing his arm, I scolded him for being so loud. Looking solemn, he nodded once-and retreated back to where he had come from.

Shrugging off his abnormal behavior, I continued to read my novel-until I was interrupted by my phone buzzing.

I had received a text.

From: Kise-kun

To: Me

Subject: Hi!

Kurokocchi~! How are you~? \(^o^)/

I snapped my phone shut, trying hard not to sigh. Kise-kun couldn't last very long without communication, could he?

Marching to the manga section once more, I hid my mortification that Kise-kun was eating snacks. In a bookstore. Although Murasakibara-kun might be at fault here...

Nevertheless, I decided this was the last straw, and sternly commanded him that we leave. Kise happily jumped up, and I couldn't help but wonder if that had been his true intention all along. Kise-kun blissfully ignored the glares of the customers, and needless to say, we were both banned for three months.

"Kuroko-san! Welcome!"

Snapping out of my trance, I sense a presence at my back, and turn.

An elderly man wearing a button-up plaid shirt with pinned on nametag approaches me. Waving gaily to me, I nod to acknowledge his overenthusiastic greeting. I suppose it's only natural that the manager has begun to notice me-every month, on the fifth day, there's only one item that I'm looking for...

"Looking for the new arrivals?"

Another nod from me.

"You're just in time," he exclaims. "They're over in the corner; you know the spot."

I murmur a few words of gratitude to him and continue on.

Distracted by another customer, he rushes to the front again-but not before taking notice of the streams of water dancing down the windows. He calls to me from behind.

"Ugh! It's raining, Kuroko-san. I've always hated the rain...it's like the clouds are weeping."

I nearly chuckle in spite of myself.

I've always despised the rain as well...but for a different reason. The sun simply reminds me of a friend of mine.

Focusing at the task on hand, I locate the new arrivals and go straight to the magazines. Rifling through their colorful, waxy surfaces, I carefully examine the pictures and words on each of the covers. I flip from one to the other, systematically sorting through the stack. Until finally..

"On Page 24: Exclusive Photoshoot with Kise Ryouta!"

I quickly find the aforementioned page, and with an almost eager sense of anticipation, I look at it. Taking care to observe every detail, I stare.

And my heart falls.

It is not the one.

Masking my subtle disappointment, I stalk to the checkout counter. After exchanging random pleasantries with the manager, I purchase the magazine.

Sparing a glance outside, I cautiously tuck the magazine inside my sweater before leaving.

It wouldn't do for Kise-kun to get wet.

Back at my house, I remove my shoes at the doorway. Quietly reassuring my grandmother that I've returned, I patiently trot up the stairs. My house isn't anything special, really. It's a Western style, most of it. The floors are wooden, and the walls separate the rooms into cubicles, so there are minimal doors. My grandmother decorates with little furniture-too much would just add up to clutter, she always says.

The surface of walls are painted in calming pastels, and the ceiling in particular is a gentle cyan blue. My grandmother tells me that this is the work of my parents, who wanted their child to grow up always reaching for the sky. I smile sadly at these sentiments now...

Chiding myself for remembering such things at such a random time, I arrive at the door to my room. When I peer inside, the most notable feature is a basketball poster, featuring the match that I'd seen on the television that day in fifth grade. Otherwise, my room looks similar to the rest of my house-compact and organized, geared more towards comfort than style. My grandmother and I are simple people, after all. I enter the threshold, feeling a bit colder than usual for some reason.

Gently plopping on my bed, I lay down, my pale hair scattering across the inviting pillow. Then, I ponder. This whole day, I've been distracted with extra thoughts of Kise-kun...how unhealthy. Oh well. Dismissing it, I begin my usual routine.

Dropping to the floor, I lift up the cotton bedspread and wriggle underneath the bedframe, my hand grasping for my familiar, leather-bound companion. Squinting through the darkness, my fingertips graze the surface. Clamping down on the cover, I slowly ease it from underneath the bed. Sitting up and brushing off the surface, I abruptly sneeze. Hmm. It must be the dust.

I hold it in front of me, in a sort of sentimental daze.

It's my photo album. And it's full of pictures of the Generation of Miracles.

Reminding myself to focus, I flip to near the very back, and prepare to add the latest entry: the picture of Kise-kun from the magazine I bought. After cautiously tearing the page out, I use scissors to clip the picture down to size. Sliding it in, I take another glance at it.

There it is again. The feeling that something crucial has been lost, and may never return again.

Wanting a reminder of happier days, I pick an earlier page at random and flip back.

My grip on the page lingers as I'm lost in thought. This particular picture was taken during one of our routine study sessions at Akashi-kun's house. My features soften as I recall the day...

Well accepted by common knowledge, the geniuses Akashi-kun and Midorima-kun are never troubled by exams. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for the rest of the Miracles. Therefore, when the English proficiency exam came around that year, the two prodigies took matters into their own hands. They would make sure the rest of Miracles would pass, so that they could continue to participate in the Inter-High.

The most worrisome members for this particular topic were myself and Kise-kun.

With the authority befitting of a captain and vice-captain, they arranged a mandatory study session for us at Akashi-kun's house. The cost of not attending: a tripled training menu for the remainder of the summer. Needless to say, Kise-kun and I were prompt and present.

It was a shame that we were some truly some of the most pitiful English students of our generation.

Gathered around the table, Akashi-kun realized this sorry fact immediately. Amidst the flurry of textbooks, handouts, and writing utensils, an intense session of reading, writing, and drilling commenced. Akashi-kun and Midorima-kun's expert tutelage was even more strict than usual, to compensate for their less-than-bright pupils.

Despite this...little to no information was retained.

I genuinely did try, I remember for a fact.

Kise-kun...was less than enthusiastic, and spent a majority of the time attempting to explore "Akashicchi's" expansive, traditional Japanese house. When he finally was restrained enough to sit, he passed the time by writing lavish messages on paper airplanes, and flying them to me from across the room. He winked at me, thinking he was sly enough to escape our tutors' watchful eyes.

Midorima-kun made a point to catch and crumple each one before it reached its destination, before pausing to shoot it in the wastebasket.

Though momentarily discouraged, Kise-kun's eyes never lost that mischievous glint-that abundant, carefree glee.

This is...

Looking back at the photo now, I observe Kise-kun's eyes, so bright and full of life.

Something tugs at my heartstrings, but I can't quite identify it.

Then I sniffle. A sniffle? Did I catch a cold while walking outside?

Ignoring it, I move on to another picture.

Brushing my fingers over the page, I faintly smile in remembrance.

The picture had been taken last year, during the Winter Cup. We'd been undergoing a labor-intensive training camp, during one of the most frigid days of the season.

Akashi-kun, naturally, chose that time to take us to the mountains.

We'd been doing a morning warm up on the rocky terrain, and were paired up for a sprinting exercise. My overjoyed companion was Kise-kun. He gave me a crushing embrace, to which I had responded by warning him to conserve his strength. Knowing Akashi-kun, the earlier in the morning the exercise, he more physically demanding it would be.

The activity ended up becoming a simple pairs running workout. The latter person was only necessary in order to keep the former in line. The route was fairly mundane, as well-a clean spiral to and from the summit.

...Or so it seemed.

Firstly, Akashi-kun had set up five intersections on the map. Each intersection forked into two paths-one led the desired way, further up the spiral; the other went the opposite direction, further down the mountain. When arriving at an intersection, one partner would choose one path to run. The fortunate partner that ran towards the summit would wait at the next intersection for their partner. The unlucky partner that had gone down would be forced to run back the way they came, and run up the correct path. The last team to make it to the top would have doubled menus for the rest of the day.

It was an exhausting game of luck.

Kise-kun sweatdropped upon hearing the rules.

I was blessed enough to always choose the correct path, and patiently sat and waited for Kise-kun to catch up.

When he did come, panting, dripping, and very, very tired...he still always greeted me with a cheerful smile. Despite his extreme workout, his grin never dimmed.

He'd mumble a half-hearted complaint at his luck, and then promptly encourage us to continue.

We were the last team to make it to the peak, but he high-fived me all the same.

Gazing at the picture, I have a sudden epiphany.

There it is. Yes.

What I've been looking for.

A painful constriction afflicts my chest, as I look at, truly look at, Kise-kun's eyes.

The luminescence that was nurtured there was one of the greatest sights I'd ever seen. I thought they'd stay that brilliant forever.

Then when, and why, did they change to...this?

I observe the newest entry a final time and solemnly bow my head. Kise-kun is dressed up in fashionable clothes, against an appealing background, with a convincing expression on his face.

But his eyes...are empty. His happiness...is artificial.

This whole time, the missing component...was the one marvel that I thought I'd be granted with forever.

I put the album to the side, because my eyes feel wet, and are brimming with moisture. I sneeze again, wiping my running nose into a tissue at my bedside.

What a strange cold to come with allergic symptoms as well...

I took that joy for granted. Every day, without fail, no matter what: Kise would beam at me with those overbearing eyes, conveying friendship and affection and who knows what else.

I would never admit it, but...that admiration filled gaze made me look forward to attending class each day. It refilled me with vigor, and energy, because who honestly couldn't soften at such a thing?

Sometimes, it melted even my glacier filled stare.

Blowing my snotty nose once more, I roughly dry my eyes.

It's okay, Kise-kun. I'll sit with you for as long as you need, like that study session so many months ago. Even if our communication is severed.

And I'll patiently wait for my golden haired teammate who may have veered onto an incorrect path, like that training camp from what seems like a decade ago. We'll meet at the next intersection, I know we will. When I finally see the true you again, I'm certain you'll greet me with a triumphant smile, no matter how much hard work we'd have both undergone to get there.

Because you're worth it.

So, for now, I will continue to look at your magazines, and observe carefully. I'll buy a million if that's what it takes for you to see me again. Because when you're ready, I want to be prepared.

I will earn the right to embrace your true gaze.

**A/N- Next is the immaculate, yet peculiar, Midorima!**


	4. Chapter 4

Shatterproof

**Disclaimer: Kuroko no Basuke does not belong to me, and I am in no way associated with the franchise. I don't own any of the characters, settings, etc.**

**A/N- I'm playing with choppy tenses that I don't portray very well again...sorry if it's annoying or confusing. And this was probably too music-centric..****But, thank you very much to the additional favs/follows/reviews! And of course, Made2352 and Cloudie-Skye, for giving me motivation!**

Chapter 4: Requiem

Midorima-kun and I didn't always get along. But even though our personalities and-as Midorima-kun so often preached-blood types were severely incompatible, even we had found level ground. But by a cruel hiccup of fate, it seems as though even that was not meant to be...

A pitiful sound echoed through the drafty Teiko music hall. Strangled notes erupted from the elegant, mahogany instrument. I wondered if the soundproof walls muffled the tortured wails, if only by a bit.

Dutifully applying pressure to the black and white keys, I managed to produce the final notes of a wobbly melody. Looking at my pale fingers, I pressed my lips together in contemplation.

Being a beginner sure was rough. But for me to practice right now was essential. The semester's end was coming up soon, in a month. Also...if Midorima-kun was working hard, then so would I.

After all, it's only natural to give your all for a hobby you love, right?

After positioning my hands over the keys once more, I focused on the first few notes and inhaled. One more time.

There are rumors circulating around, of the haunted music hall. Frantic whispers and hushed voices tell of a stoic, silent ghost that shuffles through the vacant hallways. It is rumored to have nearly no presence, nor any other distinguishable features. They claim that the only way to detect its person is the way hairs will stand on end upon your neck, and the eerie chill that races through your spine when you realize that you are not alone.

But there are a few flaws in these accusations.

First of all, something is off about the ghost's mannerisms. Despite a thorough evaluation from varied sources, "it" doesn't portray any of the typical characteristics so commonly seen in everyone's beloved anime and manga.

There aren't any ear-splitting shrieks, forlorn wails, or infuriated howls. Neither are there any chants of evil incantations, words of a tragic tale, or persuasive commands urging them to commit injustices.

Instead...there was nothing.

The Teiko student body is convinced that they are being haunted by a mute.

Another strange feature is that the spirit doesn't seem at all...invasive. Although some timid students practice in the rooms with a queasy apprehension, fearful of an unexpected visitor, none ever comes. They breathe a sigh of relief each day as they escape unscathed. Those who walk down the halls with tight lips and fists clenched soon learn that they had nothing to worry about. The more thrill-seeking students, needless to say, are always most displeased. Some of them try to coax it out with lures and taunts on a regular basis.

But this in this case, it's hard to find even if you're looking for it.

The final controversy is the matter of its unlikely schedule. After all, what kind of vengeful spirit haunts in the morning, of all times? Yet, the students can vouch that the earliest one in the halls during the morning is indeed the ghost. Well before classes, the sound of plinking keys can be be heard from the smallest practice room.

Isn't light fatal to specters?

Taking into account all of this, Teiko has reached a unanimous conclusion.

The phantom that they are being haunted by was some kind of washout. To be an outlier in even the spiritual community is an unfortunate verdict indeed.

It seems that there is only one trait it has that belonged to the typical ghost. No matter who you ask or what you see, the phantom is always, always alone.

I tire of hearing the old rumors again.

It didn't take me long to figure out the identity of this "phantom" they so spoke of. They started last year, when I first began to pursue music in the practice halls, and have been getting more audacious and ridiculous as the months pass on. They bother me somewhat. It's not the jabs at my appearance and personality-rather, it's the unnerving feeling of knowing that you're being watched.

I'm not quite used to it.

But I don't have the heart to correct the pair of chattering students walking beside me.

I continue on my way to early morning piano practice. I don't have much time each day before basketball practice, but half an hour should be enough.

I locate my usual room-the least spacious one in the farthest back corner of the hall. We don't reserve these rooms, it's the earliest arrival that has the privilege of picking. Even so, I like this somewhat desolate room. It's cozy, in a familiar sort of way.

Opening the thick, hardwood door, I step onto the thin carpet with a gray checkered pattern. The space consists of a venerable grand piano, its bench, and a table beside them on which you can put your things. The lighting is a bright white, courtesy of the rectangular fluorescent panels above me. I can sense the faint aroma of cinnamon, overlaid with a pleasant flowery scent. Every week the staff arranges a different flower species in the porcelain vase that rests upon the table.

This week it's...an aromatic sprig of lavender heather flowers.

Pleasant.

Then I almost chuckle, realizing another fallacy in the "phantom" rumors.

I am not alone. I am never alone.

My stoic companion never misses any of my practice sessions.

I wish a good morning to Midorima-kun. As usual, I receive no reply.

Plopping on the piano bench, and feeling the worn leather deflate beneath my weight, I begin.

Last year, I had found myself in a bit of a dilemma. When I had been summoned to the counselor's office late one day after school, I had thought nothing of it. Coming into his office and carefully weaving the hectic flurry of fallen papers, I sat in the seat opposite his desk. He gave a surprised start when he finally noticed me, after rifling through his chaotic file cabinet for a few minutes. He smoothed his disheveled hair and took a sip of coffee. What he said next troubled me.

"Kuroko-kun, it's about time that you started worrying about your credits...particularly your fine arts ones."

Those were the words that I had dreaded.

I knew that I would have to take a fine arts class eventually. But I had put the commitment off, not feeling interested in any of the options.

"Kuroko-kun, you still have another year of middle school after this, so I'm not forcing you to take the class now, but...many students end up saving it until the very end and forgetting about it. It's not healthy to procrastinate, Kuroko-kun. More importantly, if you end up enjoying what you choose this year, you'll still have time to pursue it next year."

Having concluded his lecture, he laced his fingers together and gazed expectantly at me. Waiting patiently a few moments for me to weigh his advice, he then asked another question

.

"So, what will your choice be?"

I replied that I would need a few days to think, at which he gladly obliged. He shook my hand as I walked out the door.

Of course I had attempted most of the fine arts courses before, during my first year at Teiko.

At the dawn of the first semester, I was enrolled in a fundamental art class. My handling skills with the supplies was mediocre enough, and I had a basic understanding of art theories. My teacher praised my imagination, claiming that it had a lot of potential. I was obedient in the quiet classroom, and dutifully worked.

The real problem lied in my actual art.

It was technically "correct" and visually "appealing" to my teacher, but she still looked worried upon seeing it.

She told me that it lacked one of the most important properties of art- emotion. Then, she met my eyes and inquired what exactly I had been feeling when I made the work.

And I...had no response. I had been bored almost, lacking the passion it took to convey a sentiment and sympathize with the viewers. My thoughts had been mechanical, focused on making progress. Wasn't that what I was instructed to do?

My teacher only shook her head mournfully, telling me that I'd be welcome back in her class once I'd found what I lacked.

And thus, that course only lasted two weeks.

The second semester, I opted for a theater class. This I was a little less uncomfortable doing, namely because I wasn't used to drawing attention to myself. Nonetheless, I tried various different roles, and discovered my innate talent as a stagehand. I was assigned to many lighting and rigging positions, as well as a few moving props in plays. I was using the same tactic that I would later learn to use during basketball- accentuating the greatness of the main contenders by lurking in the shadows.

But there were many skilled third-year stagehands, even if I was doing exceptional for a rookie. I was dispensable, and was rarely needed for performances.

What the teacher was truly scouting for was fresh acting talent.

My weak presence obviously couldn't garner much attention, and my expressionless manner of speaking wasn't made for delivering lines. It all came down to the fundamentals of my person, which I couldn't change even if I wanted to.

The crestfallen expression on my teacher's face told me enough.

I only occupied that class for three weeks.

Reminiscing over these past exploits, and knowing that I wasn't ready to pick up either class again, I realized that I was left with only one choice.

The next day, I quietly entered the counselor's office and told the somewhat bewildered man my choice.

I would take music starting the second semester.

It's essential to warm up before playing, even if it's only for a few minutes. I methodically curl my fingers, beginning to feel blood rushing through them despite the chilly disposition of the practice room. Rotating my wrists, I do my best to loosen them before playing. Finally, I roll over shoulders once, twice, then three times. There. That should ease the tension a bit. Midorima-kun only watches.

The counselor was pleased to make the necessary arrangements. He explained that since I was only a beginner, immediately participating in one of the school music groups would be difficult, especially in the middle of the school year. So, he proposed the other alternative of a music course.

It was an independent study structured class, in which the only thing I would need to do is reserve a practice room and perfect the pieces assigned to me. My grades would be determined by random assessments of progress by the teacher, and the final exam would be a performance at the end of the semester. It sounded simple, but considering my status as beginner, it also qualified me for another one of the programs.

Both the highest band and orchestra currently had an integration program, where a top music student from there would partner up with a beginner, and tutor them of the fundamentals for their respective instrument. The student tutors would not be compensated, of course, but it was a good experience for those wanting to pursue the music field.

I nodded to sign up for both, as the counselor fervently scribbled notes on my documents.

"Ah, yes, Kuroko-kun. What instrument are you planning to play?"

I paused, because I honestly hadn't given that any consideration. Then, I was struck by a sudden memory. Strong arms lifted me up, and a string of soothing, soft-spoken murmurs were whispered into my ear as a woman with hair like mine sat at a bench. I heard a gentle melody, and a soft plinking of keys.

Keys.

I told the counselor that I would like to play piano.

Sifting through files and skimming a list of names, he breathed a sigh of relief. He confirmed that there was a student who had applied that played piano, and that our first session would be held the following week, during class.

For some reason, I was a bit apprehensive.

I pull a piece of sheet music out of my folder, and almost set it on the stand before thinking better of it. I'll play by ear today. Flashing a glimpse at the key signature before I begin, I note that it's in a-minor key, with three-four time at an andante tempo. I briefly remember the struggles it took me to learn the terminology, and then recall its meaning. So, a melancholy piece with a walking pace... almost as if it was written to be a mournful tune.

But that's just ridiculous. I made so many meaningful memories with this piece, not to mention that it's Midorima-kun's favorite.

I'd never been to our music hall before, so I had a bit of difficulty locating it. But after arriving at the isolated building, I strode purposefully through the white-tiled halls until I reached a petite room near the very end.

I took a steady breath before swinging open the door and encountering my counselor, who was discussing with my soon-to-be tutor.

I caught a glimpse of telltale emerald hair. I didn't even need the thin-rimmed glasses and bandaged left hand to prove my intuition.

"Good afternoon, Kuroko-kun! This young man will be your tutor. His name is Midorima-kun."

My teammate and I faced each other, as I wordlessly held out my hand. Moving his lucky item-a life-size crab figurine-to the other hand, he took it, and mechanically shook. I could tell that whatever initial alarm he had about me had faded upon realizing the reality..

.

He would have to put with our celestial incompatibility for another class period, during the entire semester.

We introduced ourselves curtly, but didn't bother to engage in any idle chatter. We were all too familiar with each other.

Despite looking a little concerned, the counselor soon departed and left us to our own devices. An awkward silence blanketed the air, punctuated only by the sound of our breathing.

"Kuroko. Have you ever even looked at a piece of sheet music before?"

I responded with a blunt denial.

Midorima-kun blinked, then looked at his lucky item again as if to reaffirm that he had the correct one. After concluding its authenticity, he looked up again at me with a stern gaze.

"Then we have a lot of practicing to do."

Midorima-kun spent the whole week explaining to me basic music theory, demonstrating with the piano all the while. He drilled me relentlessly every day with notes, rhythms, and Italian terminology that I vaguely understood. I was constantly assessed over my comprehension, and before I knew it, I ended up studying just to keep up with Midorima-kun's rigorous instruction. The only thing that kept me sane was the calm granted by the lingering presence of aster flowers.

The following week, Midorima-kun decided that I try some practical application.

I placed my fingers cautiously on the monochromatic keys and examined one of the warm-up exercises. It's what Midorima-kun called an arpeggio, consisting of three pitches-most are quarter notes, some are pairs of eighth notes.

I began.

I had actually timid about playing out loud for the first time. I was nervous, concerned about my initial skill level-having never been blessed with any fine arts talent.

But sitting on that piano bench, and organizing my thoughts, I also recalled something else. Someone had said that the earliest stages one undergo as a musician are the most crucial. It's in those moments that a spark is ignited in your soul, in those moments that it's like tasting a refined refreshment for the first time-by virtue of its lingering presence on your tongue-and in those moments when you feel an rapid sensation in your ribcage, which is the brand on your heart that binds you to music forever. It's a time such as that when you lose yourself in a space so peculiar that it's almost ethereal, and that you feel obliged to check your pulse to make sure that you are indeed, still you.

Music could be spectacular.

And that rush was exactly what I felt when my fingertips descended upon the glassy keys.

I concluded the warm-up and turned to Midorima-kun, inquiring about the quality.

He was speechless for a moment, and his hands clenched and unclenched, before he finally answered.

"Kuroko...I didn't even know that the piano could make a sound that horrendous."

I snapped out of my delusion, and recalled what my music had actually sounded like, rather than what I had felt at the time. The verdict was, to say the least...not good.

I take my position in front of the piano and begin the quiet, humble opening of the piece. My fingers press the keys with vigor as my hands glide over the broad expanse. My mind, too, is preoccupied, by counting the rhythms. The notes that are released from the piano in turn seem almost tangible to me, and I had the strangest urge to pluck them out of the air and admire them if I could.

"We have a few things to work on," Midorima-kun explained, readjusting his glasses. He then went on about my incorrect posture. I was given a detailed explanation about how the way I positioned my hands and shoulders weren't proper, and how my fingers needed to have more elasticity.

We would have to improve upon that for the next few weeks.

Midorima-kun believed in demonstrating by example. When I didn't understand a posture, he would sit down beside me, showing my his own stance. He would then ask me to replicate it, taking my hand and arranging my fingers himself if necessary.

Midorima-kun and I had never had such deliberate close contact before. His eyes were so frigid, but his hands were reassuringly warm.

He also addressed the issue of rhythm. Supposedly mine was solid, but Midorima-kun wanted it to stay that way. I remember endless sessions of commands; notes and rests before would swim before my eyes. Before I knew it, I couldn't distinguish left and right anymore, but had perfect sense of a sixteenth and eighth note. It was only a matter of time before it integrated into my everyday life, and a tapping foot or drumming fingers would lead to a one-toned symphony.

And the counting. Every waking hour, I could hear the echoes of Midorima-kun's unyielding voice reverberating off my eardrums. It seemed that I had a more difficult time recalling the counts than I did remembering the tenor of my teammate's tone.

Midorima-kun really did have such a pleasant voice. It was worth getting drilled all the time if that meant that he would finally talk to me.

Days and weeks passed by like this, until I stumbled upon a paradox.

I asked Midorima-kun why he was so eager and attentive to teach me, when we never cooperated in anything else.

"...You work exceptionally hard, Kuroko. It's one of your redeeming qualities."

I blinked for a second, startled. A heavy silence condensed in the air, and we just stared at each other for a moment. All thoughts of music slipped my mind.

Midorima-kun had just complimented me.

But then I remembered, our mutual respect and admiration for each other. Our relationship as comrades was purely professional, and Midorima-kun was simply reinforcing that. But then he turned to me and cast a stern gaze, although it almost seemed a bit...halfhearted.

"It's because you value my advice that I'm willing to put up with you. Now, back to work."

Midorima-kun had turned his face then, but for a moment, I saw a flash of emotion in his eyes that confused me.

If I didn't know any better, then I'd say that it was happiness.

The only soul that shared my secret was the delicate lotus blooming in the room.

The piece I play escalates to a fervent crescendo, melancholy and wistful all at once. My nimble fingers tap the keys with the delicacy of a mourning waltz. Clipped staccato resonates in my ears, as detached and lonely as the reminiscent of a tragic tale.

But I'm not in the least bit sad.

Almost unexpectedly, the final exam performance neared.

Midorima-kun's lessons became more demanding than usual, especially once I received my composition. We practiced increasingly harder each day, as the stress and tension built to unstable levels. Neither of us let it show, of course. Midorima-kun stayed mature and collected, as I remained as impassive as ever.

When Midorima-kun noticed the title of the composition, I saw something flicker in his eyes. His expression nearly softened for a moment. But when I inquired why, he reverted back to his trademark countenance and dismissed it as nothing.

One of the major features of the song was one of the Italian terms. It was a...D.C. al Coda? At my clear lack of comprehension, Midorima-kun scoffed and readjusted his spectacles.

"Really now, Kuroko. I've taught this to you before. Once you reach the "end" of the song, you return the beginning, and play until here," Midorima-kun indicated, pointing to a symbol with a bandaged pointer finger. "Then, you skip the rest of the song and play the coda." He gestured to a isolated string of notes at the very bottom of the page. "The coda meant to be a special ending."

I nodded, silently absorbing the information. But why would anyone need a "special ending"? Were they not satisfied with the first...?

The rest of the piece was exceedingly difficult, with an unfamiliar key and time signature. I had never worked with a-minor or six-eight time before, and it showed. It was as though the jumble of notes and rhythms were taunting me, challenging me to master them.

I accepted.

After all, Midorima-kun had taught me well.

The tempo of the melody drops an inkling, as the dynamic fades to almost a whisper. A lulling, haunting tone overtakes the piece, as mysterious and thought-provoking as a well-kept secret. My breathing steadies as I deliberately grow quieter with each drawling note.

Is it the calm before the storm, or the humble solitude of the aftermath?

When the countdown until the performance dwindled to a mere week, Midorima-kun began doing something unexpected.

I'd shuffle into the music room, set down my things, and notice a checkered scarf on the piano bench.

When I glanced to my companion with clarification, he averted his gaze, seemingly embarrassed. Fidgeting uncomfortably, he explained.

"It's Aquarius' lucky item for the day. You'll need it if you want to put on an adequate performance."

I accepted it graciously, thanking him and placing wrapping the scarf securely over my thin shoulders.

He lightly huffed, but I knew that he didn't mean it.

I smiled at the stephanotis flowers in my periphery.

The night of my exam arrived, and I waited in the chilly performance hall for my turn, seated quietly on a wooden bench backstage. I scuffled my crisp pant legs together awkwardly, and started tapping my foot in anxiety. My eyes seemed to view everything with a dreamlike, cloudy filter, as this whole experience was a ruse. My ears started to conceive every sound as a distorted, irrelevant murmur. I clenched my fingers on them to quell their shaking, and breathed on them to keep them warm.

Footsteps, voices, and people bustled around, making last-minute preparations, but it didn't perturb me in the least. I was distracted-queasy with trepidation, but determined nonetheless

.

But then I remembered something. I glanced down at my neck, where a cotton checkered scarf rested securely-despite the administrator's "formal attire" themed protests.

I clutched it tighter.

Midorima-kun's gift somehow always gave me warmth.

Then, almost daring to hope, I took a few timid steps toward the edge of the stage. Drawing back the heavy velvet curtain, and sneezing with the dust produced from it, I scanned the audience.

I saw a familiar face.

And very faintly, smiled.

There, as critical and stoic as ever, stood Midorima-kun. Leaning against the wall, wearing casual clothes and those ridiculous sunglasses, he checked the time, as if he were impatient for the performance to start.

So he was with me after all.

He didn't notice me staring at him, but I decided not to call attention to myself. Something told me that he would get embarrassed.

When my turn came, I walked carefully and deliberately onto the polished, brightly-lit stage. Inhaling deeply, I bowed to the daunting crowd and was greeted in turn by polite applause.

Turning and stepping to the grand, I hesitantly take a seat on the leather bench. I arrange my posture the way that Midorima-kun taught me, rested my fingers upon the welcoming keys, and focused intently.

And then it began.

From the moment I began to play, I was struck with the oddest sensation. My muscles..knew exactly what to do. My body was moving on its own, performing with an articulated precision without me giving even a second thought. I felt light-floating, as if this body wasn't quite my own.

I was free.

And thus, certainly there was a use for all of my excess energy, for the physical and mental buildup of anticipation that I had so faithfully stored for this day.

Of course.

I felt a familiar gaze on my back, and instantly realized what I had to do.

I remembered my art teacher's words, telling me that I couldn't express myself.

I remembered my theater teacher's words, telling me that I would never get anyone's attention-that my voice would never be heard.

And finally, I remembered my loyal companion, who was perhaps a bit fonder of me than I thought he was, and whom I owed for patiently giving me a push and allowing me to get this far.

I would play for him.

I channeled all of my emotions into my performance, a myriad of feelings that words couldn't hope to express. I put my voice into the notes, I weaved my soul into the rhythms, and I wore my heart on the barely conceivable smile that I had the entire time.

I hope that he heard I was grateful that he tutored me.

I hope that he heard I would never forget our lessons.

And...I hope that he heard that I was glad to become his friend.

The song concluded as the final note echoed faintly through the hall, dying on the acoustics of the wind.

I turned to the audience, and was met with thundering applause.

And Midorima-kun finally smiled.

Needless to say, that was one of the happiest days of my life.

The next day, Midorima-kun and I met in that isolated practice room, one last time. Our partnership was over, as was the semester's end.

"You performed satisfactorily enough so, here."

Midorima-kun handed me a sheet of folded notebook paper. I opened it, and after skimming the contents, my eyes immediately widened. I read it again just to verify.

"It's a recommendation for you to formally enter one the middle-tier orchestras starting next year. They only grant it to those who do exceedingly well during the independent study class, and get approval from their instructor. In your case, that would be me."

He stopped for a moment, and with considerable effort, continued.

"Congratulations, Kuroko."

He then made to walk briskly out the door. I stopped him, catching him by the wrist. Slowly and solemnly, I told him this meant that we would probably never get to practice together anymore.

He stiffened, before quietly admitting, "I know. But you don't need me anymore, Kuroko. We both know that."

I dropped my gaze, thoughtfully, before I held out my hand.

I told Midorima-kun that it was a pleasure to work with him.

He shook it, and curtly replied, "As was my duty as a professional."

But the split-second prolonged grip on my hand told me otherwise.

Striding out the door, Midorima-kun called out something.

"My mother wrote that song, Kuroko. Take care of it."

I only bowed my head in response, as I watched him leave. Before I left the practice room myself, I tucked a sprig of the sweet pea on the table into my pocket.

My hands flutter around once more for the last few measures of the piece. The tone is the embodiment of a declaration, a promise of sentiment to days long past. It is the send-off to a companion's journey, a wish to keep communication despite the distance between the two.

It's a letter to the you that has moved on.

I sigh contently and glance at the piano once more. You know, some people name their instruments, to achieve a closer emotional bond. This piano, which I've been playing faithfully since last year...I've named Midorima-kun.

I'm always relaxed in Midorima-kun's company. There's a reassuring quality whenever I'm in its presence. It always practices with me every day, and we share so many meaningful memories. Sometimes I talk to it, and every time, it sympathizes.

After all, its namesake is a very important person to me. With a companion like this, who could ever get lonely?

I focus once again to prepare for the next portion of the melody. I've reached the "end", but perhaps there's more?

I breathe as my mind's eye leaps to the top of the mental sheet music in my head. To the very top of lines and measures of this gentle, repenting piece.

I've returned to the beginning, Midorima-kun. To the room where a surprisingly caring person and myself met, talked, and became companions. To the place that I discovered a piece of myself that wasn't there before-or perhaps it just needed a flash of inspiration. This is where I forged a bond with someone that was unexpectedly just like me.

I begin the lilting, peaceful opening once more and continue to ponder. Midorima-kun allowed me discover something wonderful, and he's experiencing success now too, in the highest tier orchestra. It's not that I wasn't satisfied with our ending.

But sometimes I wonder what could've been.

If we kept playing together, if things had perpetually remained the way they were in those golden days...what would've become of us now?

Would we still be this distant if we hadn't moved onto better things?

What a bittersweet success.

But there's one thing, a final thought, that strikes me.

This story hasn't ended yet.

We've yet to see what awaits us in the coda.

Maybe, in an ideal conclusion, Midorima-kun will return. He'll hear me in this somber practice room, playing a requiem meant for his ears alone. He'll recognize the yearning timbre of this significant tune, and answer my wish. I'll greet him with a long overdue smile, which I know that he'll return in his own, roundabout way.

I can only hope that fate is generous enough to heed my prayers.

**A/N- The next chapter will have the heterochromatic noble, Akashi!**


End file.
